Using the keys attached to the belt on 190.15’s corpse, I free myself from my shackles and dart down the dark passageway from my cell. I grasp the sharp piece of wood from the door, but I know I ought to find a more substantial weapon. The passage is gloomy, stinking of mold and rotten air. Quietly, I slink toward a set of stairs, being mindful of the debris caused by 190.15’s furious rampage so as not to give away my escape. Up, up, up I climb, each step nearly two feet in height and my legs weak from malnutrition. As I near the top of the stairwell, I hear a clatter and a slam followed by irritable grumblings. The stairs terminate at a great archway opening into a dimly lit, cavernous space. More debris litters the stony floor, rough furniture rests against walls and at the far side of the room, his back to me, 190.17 stands tinkering with indistinguishable objects on a stone counter. I slip into the room and behind a large, overturned chair. To my left, a fireplace containing a few red embers is built into the wall, and resting nearby, a fire iron. That will serve as an excellent weapon. Suddenly, 190.17 ceases his rustling. His head is raised and a few sharp sniffs of the air is followed by an ominous growl.
Posted on: Wed, 04 Dec 2013 21:28:47 +0000
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